


Dying and Living

by katiebour



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Anger, Angst, Death References, F/M, Grief, Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-30
Updated: 2011-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-21 23:54:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiebour/pseuds/katiebour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>***Legacy Fic****</p><p>From a prompt on the k!meme:</p><p><i>Legacy seems to make it apparent that this is the first time Hawke has heard of the calling, and I'd love to see this dealt with along side all the other post-Legacy angst. (Especially if Legacy occurs post-All That Remains and Hawke is kind of traumatised about losing another person they care about.) </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Dying and Living

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Legacy, but no major spoilers to speak of regarding content except for Warden revelations.

i was dead/i came alive/i was tears/i became laughter

all because of love/when it arrived/  
my temporal life/from then on/changed to eternal

love said to me/you are not/crazy enough/you don't/fit this house

i went and/became crazy/crazy enough/to be in chains

love said/you are not/intoxicated enough/you don't/fit the group

i went and/got drunk/drunk enough/to overflow/with light-headedness

love said/you are still/too clever/filled with/imagination and skepticism

i went and/became gullible/and in fright/pulled away/from it all

love said/you are a candle/attracting everyone/gathering every one/around you

i am no more/a candle spreading light/i gather no more crowds  
and like smoke/i am all scattered now

love said/you are a teacher/you are a head/and for everyone/you are a leader

i am no more/not a teacher/not a leader/just a servant/to your wishes

love said/you already have/your own wings/i will not give you/more feathers

and then my heart/pulled itself apart/  
and filled to the brim/with a new light/overflowed with fresh life

now even the heavens/are thankful that/because of love/  
i have become/the giver of light

-Rumi, I Was Dead

**************************************************************************************

Kit trudged through the swirling dust of the mountain pass, Anders behind her.  Isabela and Fenris were bringing up the rear- another few day's walk and they'd be back in the city.

She tried to think about Kirkwall, about the things she needed to take care of, about _anything_ but the place they'd just left.  If she thought about it, gave it any foothold in her mind, she might just drop- fall to her knees, mouth open in a rictus of pain, gasping for breath between wails-

No.  Don't think about it.  The sand, the dust- such a dull brown, like Anders' eyes when he'd told her-

It hit her like a punch to the chest, and she gasped, suddenly, throat closing.

"Love?" came the voice from behind her, and she let out a pained whimper; love, yes, she'd been his love, and he hers, three difficult, glorious years where they'd lived and loved and fought and wrestled against circumstance and Justice to find their own happiness-

She bent over, unable to hold it any longer, and a moment later he was holding her, the familiar touch of his magic ghosting over her flesh, healing, seeking for the wound that was killing her, but it wasn't a wound he could fix, not this time-

The low, animal sound that came from her throat built into a wail, and as her knees crashed into the ground he was there, pulling her to him as she collapsed, one wracking sob after another-

"No," she moaned, then screamed it.  Another deep breath, another gasping cry, and she was shaking in his arms, crying, beating her gauntleted fists ineffectually against his chest.

Then Fenris and Isabela were there, voices strident with worry, and she clung to his coat, the little green half-coat with the new black feathers, his brown leather undercoat and tunic dyed black to match- he'd never explained why he'd done it, but she'd felt like mourning when she'd seen it, the black of a funeral as he buried some hope, some life that they could have had in favor of the reality they were living in.

Isabela crouched down, and Kit went to her without a murmur, the pirate holding her and stroking her hair, murmuring soothing noises in the Rivaini tongue.  She clung to her friend, her other sister, and as Isabela rocked her, crooning, she let out the anguish she'd been bottling inside since leaving the prison.

Between sobs she heard Fenris' angry voice- "I told you that I'd kill you if you hurt her-" and Anders' voice in reply, low, anguished as her own, saying something, she couldn't hear, but it didn't matter, really, she'd listen to him no matter what he said, anything, everything, and how she'd miss the sound of his voice when he was gone, because he was _dying_ -

She cried and screamed and wailed, voice harsh, but she couldn't stop, tears streaming down her face and soaking Isabela's tunic.

After a while Isabela pulled her over to a bedroll- the men were making camp, apparently, and Isabela laid down with her, smoothing a hand over her dark red hair, pulling a blanket up to her shoulders.  Her keening would quiet, and she'd think, _there, it's over, I've dealt with it, yes, he's dying, and-_ but then the tears would start again, choking hiccups building into another crescendo of agony-

"She needs to sleep," came the sad, sad voice of her love, and she felt the tug of the Fade, dark and formless, his magic pushing her into unconsciousness.

********************************************************************************************************

Kit woke in darkness, the stars spread out above them- midnight, or sometime past.  He was behind her, holding her close, and she felt his thumb idly stroking the soft skin of her belly, under her shirt, a small, comforting touch.  His familiar smell clung to them, elfroot and spindleweed and feathers and musk, and she was stripped to tunic and breeches, as was he.

The embers of a fire glowed, revealing the pirate and the elf sprawled out in sleep across the way, the telling tangle of limbs showing that these two had fallen asleep together many times before.

Kit hated them in that moment, the simple touch of two people who had choices, a lifetime ahead of them, a future to hate or love, argue and make up, the luxury of time that she was denied with this, the man behind her who had become her life.  She moved slightly and felt his thumb still, then turned in his arms to press her face up against the familiar planes of his chest.

She breathed deeply and felt him take in a breath, then wrapped her arm around his waist and held him tight, so tight, her love, her golden mage with the amber eyes, his inner strength reflected in the stubborn set to his mouth.  In her mind's eye she saw the strong nose, the curved jaw, the lean body, his pale skin set so beautifully against her dark when they made love, the golden hair on his arms, the calluses on his fingers, the way he focused when his fingers plucked lute strings, his devotion to the task far outstripping his ability.  She remembered a thousand little things- the way he held his fork and knife when he ate, reversed in the odd table manners of the Circle, the little crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiled at her, the timbre of his voice when he called her love, sweetheart-

How could she bear to lose him?

Would it be like Da and Carver, where the years hid the memories- would she forget the little mannerisms, slipping out of her mind's grasp until all that she had left was a shadow, a record of deeds and relationships that in no way reflected his total humanity?

Perhaps it'd be like Mother, so painful that she couldn't think about it- would she shy away from his possessions, their shared friends?  Would she take his things, that trunk with its robes and trinkets, the scarf, the belled collar, the copy of the manifesto that she'd hidden when he'd started feeding them to the fire, his old staff, Freedom's Call, take them all and lock them in a room-

It'd have to be their room, because once he was gone she'd never be able to set foot in there again without thinking of the hours she'd spent in his arms, the warmth of the blankets, the softness of the sheets, the nights he slept fitfully at her side, dreams of darkspawn, nightmares about small, closed spaces waking him up, those nights where she held him, smoothing his thick locks away from his face.  The stubble, oh, Maker, the stubble, the roughness of his face after a few days when he forgot to shave, so busy at the clinic or driven by Justice to write, and write, and write.

She'd close up their room, the bed tucked with sachets of elfroot and spindleweed, his coat hanging in the wardrobe, the spare shirts she'd bought for him, all of it waiting for the man who'd never, ever come back, and leave it there, hoping somehow that the collection of _things_ trapped in time would keep him with her, even if she couldn't bear to look, she'd know they were there, and that he'd touched them, worn them, loved them, loved her, even when his body was charred bones and ash, or moldering in the ground, or- no, he had a _Calling-_ he'd be in the Deep Roads, another corrupted body among so many, gone from her, forever-

She clutched him, chest moving up and down with his breaths, here, _alive_ , and how could he be dying?

"How long?" she whispered.

She felt him freeze in her arms.  "Thirty years from the Joining, more or less," he said, softly.

She counted in her head.  "We've been in Kirkwall nearly seven, and you were with the Wardens for what, three years before that?"

He was silent.

"Twenty years, Anders," she said, anguished.  "We won't even be old.  You'll barely be past fifty-"

He tilted her chin up with one hand, forced her to meet his soft, sad brown eyes.  "Love," he said, "They were going to execute me.  The Warden-Commander took the two weeks I had and stretched it into thirty years."

"It's not enough," she whispered.  "It'll never be enough."

"I know," he said, smoothing a callused thumb over her jaw.

She pushed away from him.  "And when were you going to tell me," she said, feeling anger fill her for the first time, "Twenty years from now?  Was I just going to wake up one day to an empty bed and a note?"

He looked away.  "Love, some people don't even make it to fifty- sickness, accident, war- with things so unsettled I didn't want to worry you-"

She blazed white-hot with anger.  "What, you've been so busy planning to die over this mess in Kirkwall that you didn't think it was important to tell the person you've lived with for the _last three years_ that you're not going to live to see fifty?"

He sucked in a breath, eyes wide, and she cursed.  "Is this another one of your fucking _secrets_ , like the potion that wasn't a potion?"  She sat up, abruptly, staring at him in the darkness.  "So many fucking secrets, Anders-"

"Sweetheart," he said, voice tight with emotion, "You'll understand soon enough.  I just don't want to waste the time we have, whether it be days, weeks, _or_ years."

"What, you mean like the three years we wasted when you pushed me away, before I became the Champion?  That chunk of time that was a fucking _tenth_ of the rest of your life that you spent telling me 'no'?"  She stood up, abruptly, hearing the faint sound of the nearby river.  "I need to go wash my face."

She fumbled in their packs for a torch, seeing Isabela and Fenris sit up.  They'd heard most of it, she knew, but fuck it, it didn't matter, none of it mattered.  Lighting the torch in the embers of the fire, she walked towards the water, the stars overhead shining ceaselessly, frogs croaking- it was a beautiful night, the last press of summer before autumn arrived, before the leaves colored and fell, nights colder, colder, until winter came, killing everything, blanketing everything in snow and darkness-

"He's right, you know," came the deep voice in the darkness, moving silently in the shadows to resolve in the torchlight into Fenris.  He sat next to her on the river bank, letting the sounds of the night flow over them.  

"Sorry to wake you," she said, and he half-smiled.  

"Elvhen ears," he said, and she nodded in response.

"So-" she said after a moment, "You're agreeing with Anders?  Should we mark this date on a calendar, perhaps?"

"Hawke," he said, and she sighed.

"I'm avoiding the subject, aren't I?" she answered.

They sat in companionable silence for a while.  "When I was a slave," he began, "I measured life in moments, hours, in tasks and in terms of what my master desired.  Had he desired my death then I would have gone to it, accepted it, would have died without even conceiving of a future of my own, of friendship-" he paused, "Of affection."

Kit smiled.  "I'm glad that you've found both.  Isabela is dear to my heart."

He nodded.  "But the next fight we find could be the one from which we don't walk away- any of us could die."

Kit shook her head.  "But no one lives like that, Fenris- we assume that the future will be there, right up until the moment it isn't."

He shrugged.  "The mage was tainted and possessed long before you knew him, Hawke- and had he not been, perhaps he'd have died long ago, never to have met you.  Should you not consider every moment hence a reprieve, an unexpected gift?"

"So you're telling me to live like a slave," she asked, "considering only the here and now, unconcerned for the future?  Should I forget that the love of my life is dying by inches, and that there will come a day when I will be here and he will not?"

"Every moment you spend here is another moment of his life that you waste," he answered, and his words rippled through her like an electric shock.  "Perhaps you should spend less time concerned with the future and more time being aware of the present?"

They sat again for a few moments before Kit leaned over and pecked the taciturn elf's cheek.  He started and she grinned.  "For a broody elf, you're a good friend, Fenris," she said, and he turned to stare in the other direction, the tips of his ears reddening in the torchlight.

She stood then, giving her face a rinse in the river, pulling her handkerchief out of her pocket to dry her face and blow her nose.  "Right," she said, and steeling herself, began the walk back to camp.

When she got back to camp, she found Isabela dealing herself a hand of that Orlesian game, _Seul,_ Anders staring blankly into the fire.  She stepped on a twig and his head whipped around, a mix of relief and guilt on his face.

"Right," said Isabela, "I'll just head down to the river myself.  Nothing like a midnight dip," she said with a suggestive glance, standing up and sauntering away.

Anders turned and looked at her, and she drank in that moment, the sight of him, burnished golden in the firelight like one of the Chantry's statues, pale skin and golden hair in stark contrast to the black of his tunic and breeches, the darkness of the night surrounding them.

"I love you," she whimpered, walking forward, falling to her knees on the bedroll, heedless of the hardness of the ground, because he was _dying_ , but for now he was alive, and she needed to be in his arms, feel him, warm, alive, loving her-

And then his arms were around her, and he was holding her, tightly, and she whispered over and over, "I love you, I love you."

He tipped her head up, kissing her, desperately, and she threaded her hands underneath his tunic, finding warm skin, the soft sprinkle of hair, warm, _alive_.

"I wish I could say I was sorry and mean it," he whispered against her lips, "But I can't be sorry for loving you."

"I'd rather have thirty years with you than a lifetime with anyone else," she said, and felt one of his hands come from behind her back to stroke her cheek.

He pulled her back onto the bedroll, tugged the blanket around them, and held her close.  She closed her eyes, breathed in his scent, and fell asleep cradled in his arms, listening to the steady beating of his heart.


End file.
